Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.
Wherever the Surge May Sweep
By Jame K.
Chapter Fifteen: These Battered Heroes
The last flash . . . and the hideous attack
Dies like a wisp of storm – discouraged flame;
And soon these battered heroes will come back,
The same but yet not the same.
– Louis Untermeyer
Long ago – not too long, Legolas thought, in the years when he was still was friendly with Elrond and Rivendell – the older elf had spoken of the Nazgúl. The elf lord had said that he had once known them before…
"No man can kill them," he had intoned deeply, corners of his mouth turned downwards. "But it is possible to dissuade them from their goal." His long-fingered, white hand waved in the direction of the candle and then out the study window. "Fire, water, rocks – the elements. Once they are disbanded, it can take days, months for them to regroup. It is your only chance against the Nine – to conquer them for a time so that you may have time to flee from them."
The Black Riders stopped, yards away but Legolas could smell the familiar sweat of horse and the sweet fragrance of death. Their metal boots made little noise on the damp grass and their swords were dull flickers in the increasing fog. Legolas clutched the torch in his hand and did not move his face.
"They can smell your fear," another elf had whispered late one night when the stories were being told. "They smell terror and they are drawn to it – like vultures seek after the carrion. Do not let them see your fear."
He did not move as they slowly circled him with their knives flashing – darkness closing in on a lone candle. He was the ploy – the bait – the diversion. If they wanted to circle him, so be it. Let them waste time.
Only the fog drifting by marked the passage of time as the combatants studied each other – the Nazgúl with invisible faces and gleaming swords – and Legolas with tense hands and stubborn eyes.
They were wary of the fire, he imagined, clutching the torch a little closer. They wanted to intimidate him – they wanted to see him quailed before they attacked. But he did not have time to think more on the subject as one of the dark figures darted towards him, cutting a swath through the silvery fog.
Legolas bent his knees and lowered his head, darting under the quick swish of the small, gray blade. The hand holding the torch lashed outwards, catching the mid section of the dark flowing robe.
What if the flames did not catch hold to the dark robes? The thought vanished from him just as flames leaped upwards – singeing his hand and making him leap backwards. Surprised relief shot through him and he smiled, reveling in the tiny victory that had been given to him.
Unearthly shrieks filled his ears as the dark figure was lit by orange, burning light. Metal boots made imprints in the soft grass as the wraith stumbled backwards, breaking past his fellows and disappearing into the fog.
Two more came then and Legolas swung the torch almost as he would a sword before him. He twirled to the right and caught the billowy, black sleeve of one – then twisted and caught the chest of another with the red hot flames. Even as they fled in the direction their burning comrade had gone, a blade scraped against his shoulder and Legolas spun, barely missing the knife heading towards his neck.
He was momentarily startled as he realized for the first time how tall the Nazgúl really were – his eyes staring directly at the cloaked chest only a few inches away from his face. Then he lunged again, driving the torch at the creature's empty hood as the creature swung his own weapon towards Legolas. The following scream hurt his head and made his ears ring. But the pain was more than recompensed as he watched the tall figure stumble back into the one behind, setting them both on fire.
And three came at him at once, then, tall and vicious in their stature. He caught the first figure by a lucky stroke of the torch and caught the blade of the second on his own knife while he drove the fire forwards. But, as his blade locked tightly with the one in front of him, he was ill prepared to defend against the one coming at him from behind. Even as the Ringwraith before him was caught up in flames, he felt icy metal blade touch his skin and then enter his lower back.
A queer expression touched his face and his mouth opened in silent complaint of a wrong that would never be voiced. He was aware of his own blood coating the blade, warming the freezing metal and cooling his pierced muscles. Choppy breaths shuddered in and out of his lungs and his knife dropped from weakened fingers – only by some miracle did he manage to maintain his grip on the soft wood of the torch in his other hand. He looked down and was only numbly surprised to see a grossly bloody, metal tip protruding from the area of his stomach.
The knife twisted brutally, scraping against the underside of his ribcage, and then exited his body. Legolas was keenly aware of the gaping, bleeding hole in his middle where none had been before and where none was ever intended to be.
Legolas faltered, knees weakening under the hot pain rushing through his overtaxed nerves. His mouth opened – but he did not scream. He stepped forwards, wavered, and thought about falling. The shadow loomed over him and he could almost feel the knife preparing to swoop down into his body once more, dividing muscle and flesh and sending him to his untimely death. Stars of his own making flickered briefly in the gray, cottony fog and Legolas breathed once, gathering the tattered remnants of his strength one last time.
Then he spun – with speed that even surprised himself – his right hand thrust outwards, catching the black shoulder. Bright flames shot through the air, burning up the fog and the black cloth. With a final scream, the eighth Ringwraith ran.
Fog curled before Legolas's eyes and his muscles loosened. He made a faltering effort to save the torch from falling but his strength had left him – just as his own blood covered his stomach and back, dripping down into his leggings.
The torch dropped into the damp grass, rolling and spluttering as it fought to keep burning in the dewy wetness of the grass. Legolas followed the flame to the ground. His ankles weakened and his knees crumpled – his head shook from side to side in denial but, then, that too ceased in the face of weakness. Slack faced and quieted by the loss of blood, he toppled forwards, breathing in the earthy grass before rolling to face the gray fog above him.
He heard the dull footsteps on the soft grass as they came directly towards him but he could not bring himself to care at all. Estel was in his mind, his panicked young voice begging for Legolas to be all right. But it hurt to breathe.
So when the Witchking towered over him, Legolas did not move – did not close his eyes. He held himself still, just waiting.
Estel was terrified. There had been a quietness over the bond since mid-morning – as if Legolas was trying too hard to maintain a false calm for Estel's sake. The boy had battered himself against the thick calmness to no avail. And then, when the first tendrils of dusk swept across the sky, the peacefulness had vanished.
Be safe. Be healthy. Be whole. Remember me with love.
And Estel had shouted then. First it had been in glee at hearing Legolas's voice in his mind again after so long; and then, his glee had deteriorated into panic as the full meaning of Legolas's words swamped over him, pulling him under the surface of complete fear. The words – they sounded like a… like a farewell.
He had fled into the bond that he shared with Legolas, desperately searching for anyway to burrow into the elf's mind. At first, he thought the barriers were impenetrable – and he felt the beginnings of tears burning at his eyes. But, then, he noticed a weakening of the walls as Legolas's attention was turned outwards to whatever he was facing in the physical realm.
Legolas was deeply entrenched in battle. Estel could sense vague flashes of gleaming metal in fog and dark, looming shapes accompanied by a blazing brightness – fire, perhaps? He could sense his mentor's deep concentration and focused determination as the battle wore on.
Estel relaxed. Legolas was the best fighter he knew. The elf would be all right no matter what foe he was facing, he reassured himself. He could sense the lightning fast movements Legolas made as he defended and attacked.
Estel felt himself oddly comforted by the fast rhythm of the battle. Legolas would be all right, he convinced himself, smiling slightly with his arms wrapped around his chest. Everything would be fine. And, then, a jolt of burning pain shot across the bond and tore a scream from his chest.
When the pain faded, Estel found himself curled on the grass, his hands grasping his stomach as Halbarad bent over him. Blood was in his mouth from where he had bitten down on his lower lip. The boy knew he should respond and assure Halbarad he was all right. But, he could not. His entire mind was focused solely on Legolas and praying to Ilúvatar that the elf was all right.
He clearly felt the elf's determination and resolve as the pain was blocked from his mind by Legolas. He felt a flash of strength zip through Legolas's body and mind and Estel was heartened. Then, the strength faded – draining away from the powerful elven body – only to be replaced with complete and devastating weakness.
Legolas was – was – giving up?
Estel shrieked – mentally and physically – begging Legolas to keep fighting, to win this battle. Legolas could not give up.
A soft wave of comfort drifted over the bond, touching Estel's crying spirit. Estel calmed for a moment but dissolved into tears again when a harsh wall cut him off from Legolas completely.
And, then, a flash of sheer panic shot through the bond. It lasted only a moment before soft warmth and love pulsed towards him like a babe sighs before sleep, a wordless benediction. Then the mental link joining Legolas and Estel snapped and Estel was left alone – no comfort, no panic, no Legolas.
He could not move, breathe, or think. His mouth opened but no noise came out. Tears filled his eyes but he did not blink. His back arched as muscles clenched and twitched within him. A tremendous pain swelled inside of his head, climaxing in burst of fireworks that finally freed his tongue.
So he screamed – hands clutching his head and eyes tightly squeezed shut. Hands were shaking him, voices were calling in his ears but he could not, would not care. All that existed was the pain of a broken bond in his mind and the overwhelming grief in his heart as the fearful reality sunk in. Legolas was gone.
Gandalf rode into the camp near midnight. His face was weary and his eyes were dark with questions. He had sensed something lingering in the air as he drawn nearer to the rangers– a bitter malice and a creeping grief, threatening to forever smother the light of a vibrant young spirit on the threshold of life. His first words were directed to Halbarad as he dismounted his horse. "Where is he?"
The ranger had bowed his gray head and gestured to the leaping flames of the fire and a small figure swathed in blankets and stretched besides the orange light. "It is as if he were sleeping – but never have I seen sleep such as this. I fear you have come too late to help him."
"Humph." Gandalf brushed by the ranger, heading towards the glowing light of the fire. "We will see about that." But his eyes did not hold the supreme confidence that his voice exuded. Real doubt and fear lingered in his heart – what if indeed he had failed Middle-earth's last hope?
The boy's eyes were open – glimmering like bright spots of silvery metal framed by dark fringes. But they were fixed on the unknown beyond, lacking that quicksilver spark of intelligence that Legolas had always been so proud of. Breath wheezed through white lips and the tan face was colored a sepulchral gray, waxy and still.
As Gandalf approached, kneeling beside the quiet boy, the ranger who had been attending to Estel moved respectfully away.
"He has been like this for at least an hour," Halbarad commented, hovering near the fire as he shrugged helplessly at the wizard. His hands wavered in the air, trying to paint a picture that his voice could not say. "He collapsed and started screaming without warning. When his voice at last fell quiet, it seemed as if his mind did as well. He would not speak or move. He just lies as if death had already claimed him."
Gandalf nodded, placing one hand on the boy's pale forehead and the other on his heaving chest, sensing the agony that surged from the boy in dark, deadly waves. "Where is Legolas?" he asked – heart already knowing the answer but needing to hear it with his own ears.
"He went with a party of rangers to take care of some orcs – we have not seen them since they left the morning before last. I – I do not know if he is alive or dead." Halbarad leaned closer over the boy. "Can you help him – save him at least? Legolas will not forgive us if he is harmed."
"Perhaps." Gandalf closed his eyes and opened his mind, his own spirit gently touching the dimming soul of the child. He found grief – mind-numbing, soul-breaking grief – and deep pain enveloping the boy.
Gently, he soothed away the agony and offered reassurances to the wracked mind. As he reached deeper into the wounded mind, Gandalf found the source of discomfort – a broken, weeping wound in the deep folds of the boy's psyche. Estel's bond with Legolas had been snapped brutally – an event that was supposed to only occur when one of the participants of a bond died.
Gandalf allowed his own grief to settle for a moment as the reality of Legolas's death crashed over him in waves. But then he pushed the sadness away. The breaking of a bond was hard to deal with in the best of circumstances – but in a small child with no warning or time for preparation? "Estel," he called gently. "Awake."
The boy twitched just a little beneath his hands and fell still again.
"Estel," Gandalf urged, running a hand down the downy locks and cradling the boy's spirit in his own. "Come back to the light. It is too soon for you to wander in the world of shadows. Do not depart this world before your time."
A sigh whistled past Estel's lips and the silver eyes were hidden for just a moment before blinking open again. The young brow furrowed and the mouth turned down a little in a confused frown. "Mithrandir?" he breathed.
"Yes, young one." Gandalf spent no time wondering how the boy remembered him from their first meeting so long ago.
"Legolas said you would come," the boy continued, eyes slipping shut in unnatural weariness. "He said you would take care of me."
"And, indeed, I will – that is a promise I will most definitely keep." Gandalf brushed an old and weathered hand over Estel's sagging eyelids and slackening mouth. "Sleep in peace now. Regain your strength for tomorrow."
Estel seemed to succumb to the command and his body's need for rest for a moment. Then his body jerked, muscles tensing and mouth opening. "Legolas!" he cried brokenly, sitting up straight. His hands flailed in the empty air searching frantically for someone who was not there – who would never be there again.
Gandalf caught the hands and held them close against his chest, ceasing their erratic movements and warming the cold skin.
Wide, gray eyes turned to him, lost and troubled. "He is gone. I cannot – cannot feel him in my mind. Mithrandir…" The boy's face crumpled in grief as the wizard offered no reassurances to his rambled words. "I felt him leave," he whispered and the wizard could fairly feel the despair and heartache oozing from the words.
"I know, young one. I am sorry." He wanted to say more – but the reassurances that sprang to his tongue felt dreadfully inadequate and empty. "He is at peace now," he finally managed. "He will never feel pain or sorrow again."
Tears filled the boy's eyes, tumbling over to streak down his cheeks and fall from his jaw line to create damp spots on his shirt. His gaze turned inwards and Gandalf could sense him prodding the ragged edges of the bond – picking at the brown, rough scab of a newly sealed wound.
"Estel, no." He caught the boy's hand and urged the boy back to the present. "The pain will grow less after a time. I promise. But do not poke at the bond – it will only make the pain and loss worse."
The boy's eyes fell and he dropped to lean against the large chest, resigned and empty. His eyes drifted shut and his features began to relax – even though drops of water continued to run down his cheeks.
Gandalf touched the back of the boy's head and soothed the troubled thoughts. He was sure the boy was going to give in to the pull of sleep – but then a shout went out over the camp. The wizard lifted his eyes and beheld a straggled group of rangers slowly approaching the fire – merely ragged shadows in the sea of night blackness.
Estel jerked against Gandalf's chest and sat up straight, rubbing his eyes and shaking his dark head. "Is Legolas with them?" he asked quietly, a little breathlessly, and Gandalf knew what he meant.
"I do not know. Do you want to…?"
Estel stood, wavering just a little. His gaze turned upwards as Gandalf stood as well. "I want to know how he… how he died," he whispered, eyes reflective and lost. "He once told me about an elven funeral… I would like to…" Estel stopped then – unable and unwilling to say anything more. "I need to see him again – to give him the rites that he deserves."
Gandalf nodded and rested a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. His mind cringed away from the vision of Legolas laying quiet and still upon the elven funeral pyre, his body consumed by flame as was the custom for the High Elves, a tiny, sobbing, dark headed boy kneeling close beside. "We will go together," he said kindly. Legolas trusted him to keep the boy safe and Gandalf would – even if it came to saving the child from the heart wrenching grief that was coursing through inside his young spirit.
When the returning rangers saw Estel's approach, they fell into silence, eyes flickering from one to another. You tell him. No – you.
Halbarad moved to stand beside Gandalf as Estel broke away to step closer to the ragged bunch. "They have many wounded. We would appreciate your help, Gandalf. They need healing badly."
"I will offer whatever is needed." But Gandalf's eyes were on Estel's thin frame. "Estel."
The boy did not turn so Gandalf strode forwards, grasping his shoulder tightly – to restrain and to comfort.
"Is Legolas here?" the child asked instead, his voice high and pinched with weariness. "Please – I need to see him."
A burly ranger with dark hair and kind eyes stepped forwards and stood before Estel. Gandalf did not know the man's name but he instinctively felt the goodness of this man's spirit as he talked softly to the boy.
"Legolas is not here, child." The firelight reflected off of the man's rugged, careworn features and silhouetted him sharply against the black backdrop of the long plains. "I am sorry."
"His body then," Estel's voice tripped just a little and the boy took a deep breath. "I need to see him, Conran."
"We do not have him."
"Where is he then?"
Conran's gaze shifted to Halbarad. "The Nazgúl came upon us while we fought the orcs. We were driven to a grotto where we waited a day and a night. Many of our number had been left dead on the battlefield and there were also several wounded with us in the cave. The orcs fled and only the Nazgúl remained. Then we," the man swallowed, "and then we tried to make our escape.
"They smelled us and pursued. Legolas stayed behind to hold them off while we lost ourselves in the fog. I am not – I am not sure what happened after that. But there were nine of them and he was only one…"
"You left him there?" Estel's voice sounded hoarse and brittle. "He is dead, you know. I felt him die. But you left him there." It sounded as if the boy would break and return to the catatonic state Gandalf had found him in.
A sudden impulse seized Gandalf – a push from the Valar themselves, he later told those who asked – and he stepped forwards in front of Estel. "I will go and retrieve him. Can you tell me the way?"
Conran blinked and nodded. "Do you know the Gladden River?"
Gandalf nodded and Conran outlined simple directions to the gully they had laid the ambush for the orcs at.
"He should be on the bluffs above the river if the Nazgúl haven't – if they did not…" Conran stopped and glanced at Estel, his eyes worried and mouth tight. "That is where I last saw him," he concluded somewhat lamely, one hand going up to rub his forehead as he closed his eyes for a moment. "I imagine it will take you less than hour to get there on horseback."
"Thank you." Gandalf smiled and turned Halbarad, his smile worn and reassuring. "I will return as soon as I am able to."
The man nodded in consent, his eyes dark and heavy with his grief over the lives lost. "May the Valar go with you."
Gandalf turned to Estel. "I will bring him to you, Estel. I promise."
"Let me go with you." The boy's eyes were alight with passion and a whisper of desperation. "Please. I would be quiet and good and…"
"No. Legolas will," Gandalf stopped, choking over the futuristic tense he had just used. "Legolas would never forgive me if I placed you in danger. I will return soon with him. Do not worry." And he smiled despite the rolling despair in his heart. If the Nazgúl had desecrated the body – he would not allow Estel to see that. He would not allow the boy to see his mentor's body torn apart, horribly mutilated in some sick play by the Nazgúl.
Estel lowered his gaze and Gandalf wondered if those had been tears that he had briefly glimpsed in the huge gray eyes. "Be careful." Estel continued, blinking several times in rapid succession before looking up at the wizard again. "Please – Legolas… Legolas has gone and I do not want you to go as well." He quickly dropped his head again, hand coming up to brush harshly at his face.
Gandalf touched the bowed head and the dark hair turned a burnish orange by the still glowing firelight. "Legolas loved you very much. He would not want you to grieve too long over him – he would want you to smile once again. Stay with the rangers, Estel. I will be back before the dawn with Legolas." He gave the boy a gentle shove into the warm bulk of Halbarad. "You will be safe here."
Stars twinkled joyfully in the midnight black sky as Gandalf mounted his horse and turned in the direction of Legolas. His hat sat firmly on his head and his staff was held tightly in his hand. And when he turned around to get one more glimpse of the fire, Halbarad had taken the shaking, crying boy into his arms, gently rocking him.
In Gondor, a funeral was held. White stone parapets were draped with cloths of blacks. Black ribbons were tied to the White Tree – so forlorn in its slowly withering state – and all the guards wore black around their vambraces.
A line of mourners – faces solemn and white – crowded the way to the Hall of the Kings. Their black shoes scuffed quietly against the pale cobblestones. Black roses were strewn over the road that the pallbearers would walk, carrying the bower draped in the colors of Gondor.
Above it all, Thengel, King of Rohan, looked down from the castle walls. The procession would begin in a few moments – another steward would be laid to rest next to his forefathers – another era would have slipped quietly by without the prophesied return of the king.
He turned from the window with a sigh, trying not to look too deeply into the thick shadows hanging in the room. Thengel had seen enough grief in this place to last him a lifetime.
The Stewardess of Gondor lay half-fainting in a red armchair, a black handkerchief pressed to her white face. Her eyes were green and streaked with red as she mourned the lost of her husband of eighty-five years. A maidservant stood at her side, ready with smelling salts should her mistress faint dead away.
Thengel smiled reassuringly and patted her hand as he walked by, heading towards the larger couch pressed up against one wall. "Echtellion?" he ventured, one hand outstretched in placation.
"I am here," came the quiet, raw voice from the shadows. The young man – only a few years younger than Thengel, so not too young at all – rose slowly from his reclining position. "Is it time?"
"About." Thengel stopped and clasped the smaller shoulder firmly. "How are you, my friend? Will you hold?"
"I will hold." And the young man's gray eyes were flushed over with pink and sheens of water. His lips were red – cherry red as if the young steward had been gnawing on them repeatedly throughout the course of the day. Even though his shoulders were straight and his jaw was locked, the truth was in the young man's teary eyes and slightly red nose.
Turgon, beloved Steward of Gondor, father, husband, and mentor, was dead. Gondor – and the world at large – was changing.
A heavy burden had been dropped on Echtellion's shoulders – a burden that could not be lifted through temple prayers or a few hard-won battles. Sinister forces stretched from mountains to oceans and their powers seemed unstoppable.
Thengel sighed and pulled his friend into a hug as the trumpets sounded from the courtyard. Today, they would mourn a steward's passing and tomorrow they would celebrate as another instated. And Echtellion would take the vow his fathers before him had taken.
"I will hold my post – I will fulfill my duty – I will stand on the ramparts of Gondor as its stalwart defender – until the day of the return of the king."
to be continued.